The gravel training yard of the physical training camp had become a nightmare that the recruits couldn't escape.
Every morning, the soul-piercing sound of the brass whistle stabbed into their eardrums like steel needles. It didn't just awaken their bodies—it awakened the deep fear in their souls of hellish long runs and death-defying rock climbs. But fear couldn't stop time from moving forward, nor could it halt the cold gears of the training camp's relentless machine.
Two weeks passed, ground down by sweat, groans, and occasionally the exaggerated howls of Helmeppo, whose leg injury hadn't yet healed. And when the sharp whistle once again tore through the morning air, the command that followed was no longer the familiar "five kilometers with load." Many recruits even showed a fleeting, dazed look of relief, as though spared from death.
"Basic swordsmanship! Training Hall No. 1! Ten minutes!"
The assistant instructor's roar was just as cold as ever.
Training Hall No. 1.
Beneath a massive arched dome, the air was heavy with the smell of old sweat, leather, and faint iron rust. The floor was thick, dark hardwood with excellent sound absorption, each step echoing with a dull thud.
The walls were covered with charts of standard-issue Navy sabers, from the most basic long blade to officer-level swords, their rigid lines displayed like instruments of execution. At the center of the hall, dozens of hardwood posts wrapped in thick straw mats stood neatly arranged, their surfaces scarred with countless old and new cuts—a silent testament to the brutal training of the past.
The recruits lined up nervously along the edge of the hall. The instructor for basic swordsmanship was a man of medium build, but unnervingly sharp and vigorous. He wore a faded old training uniform and had a plain longsword casually slung at his waist, sheathed in nothing.
His face bore no expression, but his eyes were sharp, like a tempered blade, sweeping across the group with the cold scrutiny of a craftsman inspecting raw steel. His name was Ken, an ordinary-sounding name, but in the camp, he was infamous as the "Demon Swordsmith."
"A sword is the extension of your arm! The embodiment of your will! The fangs that slay evil!" Ken's voice wasn't loud, but it rasped like sandpaper against metal. "But in the hands of trash like you lot, who can't even hold one properly, it's not even fit to poke a fire!" His contempt poured down like a bucket of ice water.
He gestured with his hand. Several assistants pushed in heavy wooden carts, piled high with standard training longswords.
The blades were dull, the hilts wrapped with coarse hemp rope that had been soaked and dried countless times in sweat, exuding a rancid, sour smell. The scabbards were crudely made, so thin you could see gaps in the wood.
"Everyone take one! Register your number!" Ken ordered coldly.
Distribution began.
When one of the heavy, sweat-soaked, rust-stained practice swords was shoved into Luffy's hands, he instinctively weighed it, frowning slightly.
Too light! Far too light!
It wasn't just physical weight—it was a disparity on the level of the soul.
The heaviness of Zangetsu, as immovable as a mountain and cold as black steel, was already branded into his soul. Now, holding this light, lifeless, tainted Navy blade, it felt like a giant used to swinging a mighty warhammer was suddenly handed a stalk of straw.
Every nerve in his hand protested. The coarse hemp hilt rubbed against his palm, leaving a sense of alien distance.
Deep inside his soul, he could even feel the faint stir of Zangetsu's slumbering consciousness, a low hum of disdain at this unworthy substitute.
"Pffft…" A mocking snicker came from the side.
Helmeppo, leaning on a makeshift crutch, stood not far from Luffy.
His leg, wrapped thickly in bandages from the rock wall injury, didn't stop his venomous mouth.
He held his own training sword, pinching the hilt with two fingers as though it were something filthy. His narrow eyes darted toward Luffy, catching his faint frown as he tested the weapon—a perfect chance for ridicule.
"Oooh, look, it's our genius, Luffy-san~"
Helmeppo dragged out the words, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "What's wrong? Can't even hold a sword? Or is it… too heavy for you?"
He shook his own blade with exaggerated flair, letting it rattle noisily. His face split into a cruel grin. "Well, I guess it makes sense! Look at that tiny body of yours—tsk tsk! The sword's taller than you! The hilt's thicker than your arm! Hahaha! Maybe I should apply for one that's more… 'suitable' for you? Like… a kitchen knife?"
He bit down hard on the word "suitable," earning a few stifled chuckles from nearby recruits.
Koby, standing on Luffy's other side, nervously adjusted his glasses. His lips moved as though to speak, but seeing Helmeppo's sneering expression, he shrank back, lowering his head. He only glanced at Luffy with worry.
Luffy ignored Helmeppo's yapping. He didn't even look at him.
Instead, he drew the shoddy longsword from its crude scabbard in silence. The dull blade had no sharpness at all, its edge curled and flawed.
He tried holding it steady in one hand, the tip trembling—not from weakness, but because he couldn't find the rhythm. Zangetsu's connection, that seamless unity of body and blade, was completely absent. This was nothing more than a lifeless piece of cold, alien iron.
"Basic moves! Slash! Chop! Thrust! Sweep! Block!"
Ken's voice cut through the murmurs. He stepped to a training post, and in a blur of motion—shoo! shoo! shoo!—demonstrated the basic strikes. His movements were simple, quick, and precise, the blade whistling sharply through the air.
Each swing carried a heavy, rock-solid force. Even the same dull practice sword in his hands seemed alive.
"Do it! Target the posts! Begin!"
The hall erupted in chaotic hacking and pounding.
Wooden posts rattled with dull thuds, splinters flying. Most recruits' form was terrible, strikes crooked, or bounced back with painful recoil.
Helmeppo, eager to show off and hide his limp, gritted his teeth, gripping the sword with both hands as he struck down hard.
"Haaah!"
Bam!
The blade dug a short way into the straw post.
Not bad in strength, but stiff and graceless, the recoil made his injured leg tremble with pain. Still, he yanked the sword out, flashing Luffy a smug look as if to boast of his "power."
Luffy stepped up to a post of his own.
He took a deep breath, pushing aside the weight of Zangetsu in his mind, and focused on the sword in his hands.
Ken's movements, he gripped the hilt firmly with both hands, lowered his stance, synced his waist and legs, and brought the blade down in a clean vertical strike.
The motion was smooth, his force well-directed, his swing flowing naturally.
Clang!
The blade struck the post with a dull metallic thud.
But… that was it.
The sword didn't cut in.
The cheap blade shuddered, the rebound jolting through his wrists, leaving them sore. The metal groaned faintly, straining at its limit. The only result was a shallow white scratch on the surface of the post—it hadn't even cut through the outer straw.
(End of Chapter)
[50 Power Stones = 1 Extra Chapter]
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